


Black Ink

by xorabbit



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bottom Elim Garak, Digital Penetration, First Time, Light D/s themes and imagery, M/M, Object Insertion, PWP, Playing Doctor, Silence Kink (mild), Slash, Soft Dom Julian Bashir, Some Hurt/Comfort They Blundered Into Because They're Dopes, Top Julian Bashir, Xeno, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25523359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xorabbit/pseuds/xorabbit
Summary: Julian takes the opportunity to learn a little more about Cardassian anatomy. But Cardassian romance is a negotation.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 124
Kudos: 210
Collections: INK_2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DHW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece to DHW's piece [BLUE INK](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25832062/chapters/62755663). Two different fics, same theme (and same collection!)
> 
> We workshopped these together. Hope you enjoy!

He bandied his weight, carelessly, from one elbow to the other. “That’s the problem, Garak. You’ve saddled me with a book where you claim the erotic sequences are thematic, but I haven’t got the vocabulary. And then you—”

“Doctor, you cannot simply _request_ the vocabulary. It is implied.”

“Garak, that doesn’t even make sense,” Julian countered. “These are concrete anatomical terms. I just don’t _know_ them, they’re never _explained,_ and they can’t be _intuited,_ because they refer to a body with which I’m not familiar.”

The Cardassian rolled his eyes. Two beautiful, blue eyes.

“Ah—now! Don’t—Garak! Don’t give me that. The themes are, as you yourself claimed, _subtle._ Well, unless you provide me with the framework, I have no way to determine the… metaphorical rhyme scheme of the work, now do I?”

“Deductive reasoning, Doctor.”

“I just—no, Garak, I don’t buy that. I know a bloody mystery. That’s one of the rules—it has to be derivable. I can’t _derive_ alien anatomy. Cardassians are famously secretive, and—well. How am I, precisely, to guess what one word means over another? If you were Klingon, certainly, I’ve found myself face-first—”

“Don’t be uncouth.”

Julian answered with an audacious half-gape.

“We’re in public, my dear. It is lunch. On the Promenade. I do hope it is not your intent to scandalize the innocent ears of the station?”

“I’m just _saying,_ Garak, that I would very gladly engage with your literature, and in better form, but you’re not giving me the toolset. The universal translator can’t do a bloody thing for a unique anatomical term, and how could it? Look—I’m perfectly interested in _Enduring Cycles of Jaxon_ , and I’d even stand to be a little lost, but any time I am, you’re just… bloody excoriating! Will you just tell me: what’s a _m’hodaxon?_ ”

“ _Doctor!_ ” Garak whispered urgently. “In _public,_ no less!”

Julian gave him a half-smirk. “Then what about in private?”

“In… private?”

“In private.”

\--

Owing to his post-lunch shift, they’d arranged for a 21:00 “later”—which did give him time. Time to re-consider, ostensibly. However, there was no real circumstance—no scenario of a million, and he calculated them all—that ended in his saying no.

Of course, he wasn’t quite certain that this would be the night they made good on many, many hours of flirting and borderline grab-ass. He was, however, entirely certain it was a significant step in that direction.

He’d meant to, sooner or later. He had waited for a sufficiently unambiguous signal, which admittedly, from Garak, a Cardassian, he probably missed the first thirty times.

That said, the Cardassian erotica? And it _was_ erotica. He’d verified that fairly easily. Perhaps the other novels had all been viscerally enthralling to a gray-skinned audience, but these? Indisputably. It had only been for him to call the cards.

And he knew more Cardassian vocabulary than he’d let on.

… There were a number of those words he wanted very much to use.

He only hoped he knew the rest. Cardassians courted strangely, that he knew. They were hierarchical. And they were sly. They could flip an entire room upside-down. All that (well, most of it) from Jellico’s report, though Julian imagined he’d never meant it for quite these circumstances.

It was a challenge, certainly. But for a devout xenophiliac, it was a challenge he was more than eager to face. Not just anyone could fuck a member of the Order—former or not—and live to tell the tale.

Consequently, Julian was pleased to have a little advance warning. Enough time to get things together, place everything where it might be needed later. There were strategic caches in every corner of his admittedly small quarters—a veritable Easter hunt of gels and oils. And towels. He’d heard that.

—Jadzia, actually, had been kind enough to inform him. (“ _You’ll want towels._ ” “ _Towels? What for?” “For when you fuck him, Julian. I’m telling you, you’ll want towels.”_ )

They were excellent friends.

There was a bit more. A few extra devices. One never knew. And, admittedly, he wasn’t an identical Cardassian shape, though he assumed if that were going to make so much difference, Jadzia would have clued him in there, as well. Tobin would never have neglected the schematics.

He’d done a reasonable amount of personal preparation, as well. He did hate to be presumptuous. Even Palis occasionally navigated somewhere unexpected, and a good doctor is ready for anything—of any diameter.

The key goal was a simple one: fuck Garak, one way or another.

Fuck him more than one way, if possible.

He had that lovely little pink tongue.

Julian half-hardened at the thought, entertaining it, tasting it—the notion of feeling that tongue all the way to the back of Garak’s throat.

Good grief, speaking of. There were medications that could help suppress things a bit. Nothing too much, nothing too long. But for buying time, arranging the reserve. Even if it was “tonight”, it would not be 21:04. Garak would never stand for it.

—Julian hoped it wouldn’t be standing for long, in either event.

Silken sheets. Silken sheets. Sweaty and slick, they really weren’t the best. But Garak would appreciate it, silken sheets. If Julian had anything to say about it.

And, of course, he’d ordered them in blue.

\--

“Come on in,” Julian said warmly. He motioned towards the interior of his quarters.

“Not too early, I take it?”

Julian’s brain could calculate the precise second Garak had knocked on the door. What was amazing was, so—apparently—could Garak. 21:00 indeed! And not a moment later. “You’re right on time,” he affirmed. He, himself, even knowing the time, had often failed to commit half as successfully to its mandates.

“Oh, wonderful, Doctor.” Garak slid by, entering the room with a flash of grace. He looked entirely unperturbed, which Julian took as a good sign. He opened his mouth slightly. “Goodness, do your normally keep it so warm? Practically Cardassian.”

“Entirely Cardassian, if I can help it.” Julian answered smoothly. “I figured it might help make you comfortable.”

“Well, then perhaps you know quite enough about our anatomy already? Should I leave?”

Julian chuckled. “I certainly hope you won’t.”

“Don’t tell me I’m your prisoner? Certainly I must leave, eventually.”

“My dear Mr. Garak, you can leave whenever you’d like.”

“Mm.” He was wearing his simplest tunic, one which Julian expected—and hoped—had the fewest complications. A few snaps, here and there, and the occasional hook-and-eye.

Julian, too, was no fool, and had selected something similarly simple, if not quite as readily accessible. He wore a turtleneck—oxblood—and his usual black trousers. He was still in his uniform boots, which cut a sharp silhouette, gleaming with polish. For once, his was the conservative attire. It provided him a certain verticality, and a commensurate intensity. Blue could excite Cardassian blood—but red was no slouch, either.

Garak seemed to notice it, the height of his neckline, the severity of the color. He smirked slightly, then looked away.

“Let me go clean my hands,” Julian said, exhibiting his lithe fingers. They didn’t look dirty at all—but, if all went as planned, they would be.

Garak cut a short nod and strode to the center of the room, planting his feet precisely of the middle of Julian’s accent rug. (A Rigelian weave, if he had to guess—gaudy in the extreme.) “Good thought, Doctor,” he called, but Julian had already disappeared around the corner.

Meanwhile, the Doctor stood in front of his replicator and dialed in _Terran (Human) Hand Sanitizing Gel #4_ , his preferred strength and consistency. He rubbed it into his skin, feeling it evaporate—feeling it cool as it disappeared into the air. And it did cool, it felt cool—cool contrasted against the warmth brimming under his skin. Perhaps the turtleneck had been a mistake. He’d know soon enough. He wiped a bit behind his neck, for whatever relief it provided.

He placed the empty gel container back into the replicator for recycling. He licked his lips uncertainly. What else did he need? For this charade?

—And good grief, he hoped it was. He was _sure_ it was. They were already flirting, teasing—

He’d reviewed what scant resources he had on the matter of Cardassian flirting. Unfortunately, it would be his first attempt, at this stage, having come this far. Thankfully, he figured that Garak was altogether aware of its novelty. And Garak did find the doctor’s callowness endearing (at least, often enough). Even so, there was a balance to be struck, a sophisticated dance. One could never show one’s _full_ hand—not too early.

Cardassians were people of secrets, and he could not be so zealous as to show his desperation to unearth them. That would be worse than misguided. It would be _bad form._

The doctor paused for only a moment, then dialed in a small notepad and a marker. That would give it all a veil of credibility. Some plausible way to jot down his findings.

Julian almost felt like he should begin with a human assessment. _“The observer will begin to feel a particular prickling down the spine, towards whatever’s in his or her trousers—”_

He took a few meditative breaths. Quietly. Quiet, in the interests of escaping Cardassian ears.

He came back around the corner, tapping the lidded marker against the first page of the notebook, as if he had been in any other way preoccupied. “All right, then, Garak—”

Garak was naked.

Entirely.

No tunic, no trousers, no thermal underwear: not a scrap. Those had been slumped over the arm of the couch, not entirely haphazardly, but with no special precision.

(But who was looking at his trousers—now that they were off of Garak, that is?)

“Well, Doctor? Are you quite ready?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor loves feet. We have to respect that.

Garak was fond of his style, fond of his colors. Fond of announcing his keen aesthetic prowess.

… Leaving Julian unsure of whether it would be a compliment or an insult to remark how much better he looked without a single stitch on him. All that before even touching on the matter of Cardassian manners.

And surely, Garak had, once or twice, bemoaned his stoutness. Julian didn’t know what to make of that—Cardassian vanity, perhaps, or bait for affirmation. (He never seemed to catch it in the moment. There was a reason Dr. Bashir’s many romances tended to unfold as decisively won battles and bitterly lost wars.) Still, the body Garak derided was a beautiful thing.

Julian could, most certainly, discern the inherent dimensions of his frame, of the fabulous reptilian skeleton over which personhood was applied, but it was the strength—the muscle—corded around it that truly caught his eye. Much of him was padded to some softness, but what was underneath? Undeniable. The simians of the past who’d shrugged off the crocodile-kindred were long since dead; their offspring knew better, intuitively, than to assume that which had been smoothed by years of successful hunting would continue to bob, lazily, along the river’s edge, inert.

Garak’s body—that which Julian could see from his current angle, anyway—was clad in full gray. Yet far from appearing dull or listless, it brimmed with intricacy. The shape of his scales varied—their thickness, their orientation—even their subtle keeling. They wrapped, encircled, defined. Some—especially along his shins—were coarsely armored. Over his belly, there was something more vulnerable, flatter and glossier than those which graced his shoulder, his collar, the arcs of his ribs—

Julian regretted having touched the thermostat. He feared he might catch flame in an instant, burn to a cinder, only—

There was nothing to see, for the time being, between his friend’s legs. Perhaps a suggestion of where adjoining scales might plumpen and split.

The doctor steeled himself. There was no need for his gaze to linger. If the evening went well, there would be ample opportunity to observe every inch in fine, and intimate, detail.

He smiled pleasantly. Doctors, too, knew the art of a closed face.

“Thank you, Garak. That will certainly make things easier.”

Garak nodded. Even in the room’s low light, his hair maintained its fastidiously silken sheen. That did seem to be the full extent of it, hair of the head. Unless there was something to the rear to which Julian had not yet been made privy, anyway.

“A very promising start.” He tapped his pen against the notepad. He held the tip of his tongue to his teeth, his mouth slightly open, his expression one of considerable concentration. “Let’s see….”

Garak’s expression remained placid. “Yes, doctor?”

Julian approached nonchalantly, his steps as light as the sun on snow. “It may seem a little unorthodox, but I like to start with the foundations. That way, we can be sure there’s nothing I’ve missed.”

“Carbon-based, doctor,” Garak replied teasingly.

“Oh, that’s not what I meant.” Suddenly, he ducked to his knees, as a worshiper might.

Even Garak seemed to startle slightly.

Julian smirked, but bent down just a little too far for the face-first experience. “Your feet, of course,” he said. He brought himself close.

He did like them, like feet. As unique and individual as hands. Nearly as sensitive. But often, quite tragically, ignored. However, even if he hadn’t been a man of special appreciation, he assumed this closer look could have made a compelling argument for any man to change his mind.

Garak’s feet were gray, of course, and richly scaled like the gauntlets of a warrior king. Each toe ended in a lovingly-manicured claw, buffed to a shine. A remarkable testament to his heritage.

Julian rapped the base of the pen against the floor with a series of short clacks. “Well, I must say, we’re off to an excellent start. I’d say I was _pleasantly_ surprised, but I always took you for a man with good hygiene. Still, you’d be amazed how many ensigns assume the sonic shower’s default settings will do.” He looked up—so far up, up to a nose itself upturned in self-satisfaction.

“Goodness, doctor! Cardassians take education very seriously. I’d have never arrived in poor form. What do you take me for?”

 _You name it,_ Julian thought. He let his graze travel, again, to his ankles, his toes, to those lovely nails of his.

“Interesting… and what’s this?” Julian asked, prodding at the claw of the little-toe. It was larger than that of the adjacent toes, almost as large as that of the big toe. It was thinner, as well, with a more talon-like profile. “I don’t dare venture that’s the _ojhi’mar?_ ”

Garak snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous, doctor. _He’tex._ ” He lifted a foot and brought it to the side of Julian’s head, brushing the attested _he’tex_ through the human’s dark, unruly hair.

Julian felt a tingle up his spine. It finished in a shudder he could feel in his teeth.

“Grooming claw.”

He reached up to feel its shape, to touch the hidden sole. Its roughness, its abrasiveness, made his palm prickle.

Garak allowed it.

“… Grooming claw….”

“Completely vestigial, of course,” Garak informed him, withdrawing his foot from the doctor’s grasp.


	3. Chapter 3

Julian could have come away with that sight alone and been satisfied.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Still _hungry_ , but encouraged. Committed.

Luckily for all parties, Garak had made no move—as he had suggested—to head for the door—

— _even_ as Julian set down his pen to reach for his right ankle, encircling it with his hands and working his way… up. His fingertips trailed the valleys of his scales and their soft interstitial leather, each giving way to the next… _up_.

“These then, these large scales?” He asked. (Not breathy. My word, no. Controlled.) “Along the front, here, protecting the shin?”

Oh, he could _feel_ the musculature of Garak’s legs.

“Why don’t you make a guess, doctor?” Garak purred with open satisfaction.

“ _Thrivik_ scales.”

Garak shook his head. “Gracious. It’s a good thing we’re doing this, doctor. It really is.” (There, they would both agree.) “Mistaking the two…. No wonder your interpretations of the literature can be so… _exotic._ No, those are the large scales along my _thighs._ The ones under your fingertips are _notisik._ Entirely different, and metaphorically all the more so.”

“Beg pardon. Care to elucidate?”

“Hmm.”

Julian narrowed his eyes. _If that’s how this game works._ He pressed into the divot behind the knee. “The popliteal fossa, colloquially the ‘hough’. Not much protection here, is there?” The scales were, indeed, small and thin to facilitate the joint’s full range of motion. Garak’s skin felt warmer there.

This answer arrived somewhat more lazily. “The _s’tai._ ”

Julian had seen that word, both in physical descriptions and allegorical ones. It was not for just anyone to touch. “And the analogous cubital fossa, in the arm? To us, the chelidon. You?”

“It’s also the _s’tai._ ”

“The same word?”

“There’s a more technical anatomical one, of course. But it would never be used in _literature._ There, it’s… contextual. Certainly, an author would leave no ambiguity as to… _which_ someone was touching.” The smallest glint of his tongue (that _little pink tongue_ ) peeked from between his lips.

From Julian’s angle, it was only the faintest glimpse. Funny, how the faintest glimpses could be the most… affecting.

His fingers continued climbing. Now, Garak’s right thigh (which brought to mind, quite unbidden, the memory of a Gorn that the dear doctor once admired) enjoyed the benefit of his direct attention. He squeezed the mass of skin and flesh, massaged it, and began to learn it by its texture and its subtle activations. ( _Little shivers…._ ) He kept his gaze exclusively between his present work and Garak’s face, never diverting his eyes, feeling all the more enthralled by his feigned indifference to what was kept so near. “So _these_ are the _thrivik_ scales. These here?”

He squeezed a little harder.

“Yes. Yes… doctor.”

Julian leaned close and ran his fingertips along the primary ridge, his warm breath ghosting over Garak’s scales. “Altogether different, Garak, you’re right. Having seen them both, I’d never mistake one for the other. These look much tougher, at first glance, but they’re much thinner, aren’t they? Nothing like the—what did you say?—the _notisik._ ”

Garak made an approbative click with his tongue. “Precisely.”

“They’re more sensitive, aren’t they?”

The Cardassian looked straight ahead, as if he’d heard nothing.

 _Dear Mister Garak, I know Cardassian hearing isn’t_ that _poor._ He took the marker again and, the thought only half-formed, he uncapped it, tapped the base once against his jaw in vague consideration, and finally touched the tip to Garak’s thigh.

Garak cocked a brow, permitting himself to observe in what was admittedly unqualified puzzlement.

Julian scrawled the word ᴛʜʀɪᴠɪᴋ onto the corresponding line on scales. He extended his elbow and did it again on the shin: ɴᴏᴛɪsɪᴋ.

Garak’s mouth formed a thin line—not trusting in the words it might betray.

“There!” Julian announced, feeling quite clever. “I’ll just label as I go.” He pressed his hand against Garak’s leg. “Turn.”

Garak obeyed.

Julian wrote s'ᴛᴀɪ on the back of both knees. “There. No confusion.”

 _That_ was an overstatement. “If it helps you, doctor. I forget, at times, that human education is not so rigorous. A Cardassian child would not need it repeated—”

“I’m sorry, Garak.” Julian smiled, and though Garak was now looking in the opposite direction, he trusted that his expression could nevertheless be discerned from his tone. “I’m going to need to see it more than once.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Which means we can’t forget this, either.” Julian reached an arm around from behind, scrawling ʜᴇ'ᴛᴇx in bold letters along the outer edge of Garak’s foot, that which possessed the toe bearing the sharp grooming claw.

His reward was to press so far against the backs of Garak’s legs that his nose was flush with another long line of scales. He inhaled deeply. Garak was always strangely odorless (compared to Worf or Morn, that is), but he did perfume himself somewhat. At least, his soaps and lotions often left him with a faintly pleasant scent—nothing that stayed, nothing that followed.

This time, however, it was far easier to discern.

 _That’s Rigellian iris,_ Julian thought. He had often picked through the toiletries available in the small boutique in the promenade, seeking an appropriate gift for whoever had most recently caught his eye. But Rigellian iris? He wouldn’t have thought Garak the type, though it suited him wonderfully.

He couldn’t afford to be too obvious.

… He said to himself, now face-to-face with the back of Garak’s thighs. Which meant, when he withdrew, even the slightest amount, he could then take in everything he’d been missing from the front. He consumed the sight, basked in it, like the first explorers to the snow dunes of Andoria.

 _Grab it!_ an unhelpful voice suggested.

 _Don’t do it,_ he reminded himself. But he did want to, terribly. _You’ll get your chance. Just… pace yourself. It’s a game, love._

Patience was not his strong suit. He chewed on his lips.

_That’s it, I have to stand. Otherwise…._

“Here, let me see,” he said, taking to his feet, as if everything were normal, as if he hadn’t just gotten a preview of an ass he now viewed with an almost exasperated possessiveness. He felt like a schoolboy watching the minutes tick down to recess. “They go all down your back, don’t they? These lines of scales, here? Oh—Garak—”

“A-ah, yes, Doctor. Well-shielded. You recall the human story, don’t you? The one you shared with me. Illustrating the, ah… the trouble inherent in having a gap in one’s armor. Almost Cardassian, a cautionary tale.”

Julian grinned. “Oh, Smaug?”

Garak nodded. “That sounds correct, yes.” He swallowed, causing his throat to bob.

 _And Smaug,_ Julian thought smugly, _was undone at a sharp point. Well._

He eyed the tip of his pen.

“Put out your arms, Garak.”

“Hmm? What’s that, Doctor?”

“Out to the sides. So I can see. Lift.”

Garak paused, but relented with uncharacteristic quiet. He lifted his arms, held them outstretched.

Regardless of the medication he’d taken, Julian was beginning to feel a pressure in his trousers. He redirected the thought—where exactly he imagined the prick.

He pressed the marker to the nape of Garak’s neck. “Bilateral symmetry, oriented around the spine.” Julian slowly—meticulously—traced the line down the small of Garak’s back, leaving a thick, black trail. “They’re very thick, aren’t they?”

“Seems quite self-evident, Doctor. And we should need our armor,” he answered modestly. It lacked something of his usual vim. It had an uncertain edge, mildly confused. Perturbed, even.

“You feel it, still, can’t you? Here.”

The scales of Garak’s back made long ladders like those of a crocodile, arranged in even rows. Five of these were especially pronounced: one along the spine, and two matching on each side, roughly corresponding to the erector spinae. Julian drew the outline of each, each swipe a confident motion of the anatomically expert.

Garak did not move a millimeter.

The doctor prodded the center of the line immediately off-center. “This one, along the longissimus?”

“… _U’stpa_.”

He moved one over. “And this, over the iliocostalis?”

“ _U’skap_.”

The tip returned, dead-center. “And here, which overlaps the spinalis?”

“ _Tes_.”

Julian wrote in the words for each: ᴜ'sᴛᴘᴀ, ᴜ'sᴋᴀᴘ, and ᴛᴇs.

(Who said that doctors had terrible penmanship? Julian was quite proud of the work.)

“And what about down here?” Julian asked. He brushed the blunt end of the marker against the vertical lines formed at the interface just at small of Garak’s back. “Look at this!” he remarked. “Here, at these here? Blue. A little bit blue. Not bright blue, not properly, but that’s blue….” He rubbed his lips with his off hand. “And here I thought Cardassians were pure gray.”

“Mistaken for a Romulan. Hardly my finest moment.”

 _Better than calling you a whiptail lizard, which was the first thing that came to mind,_ Julian thought. He’d learned that one early: never to compare a member of another race to a Terran creature. It rarely went well, even when it was offered with the purest of intentions. A Tellarite woman had kicked him out of bed for no worse—which had included the drop from a second-story window.

“I’m surprised you don’t put these on display more often, Garak,” Julian teased. “Look at you, with all these hidden colors.”

“For a Cardassian….” Garak shifted his posture slightly, his arms still outstretched. “For a Cardassian,” he repeated, “those colors are best reserved for one’s doctor.”

“Are they sensitive?”

“ _Doctor—_ ”

“Can you feel this?” Julian interrupted, using his pen to inscribe a small heart in pure black.

“No,” Garak lied.

 _You’re getting short with me,_ Julian thought. _Which means…._ He grinned. “Now these,” he said, “These scales over the trapezius? Just remarkable. Until it hits the supraspinatus fossa, it goes off in this direction, up over the deltoid.”

“Just touch, Doctor, and I’ll answer,” Garak retorted. “No need to remind us of terms we both know full well. Being a _mere_ tailor, but a dedicated professional nonetheless, rest assured I am quite familiar with… how a body fits together.”

(And, how, at times, it could be made to eschew its standard conformation.)

It was thrilling. A terrible little thrill.

(It reminded Julian he had no obligation to go easy.)

Julian hummed. “Grateful to have your expertise.”


	5. Chapter 5

Garak dropped his arms, bringing them forward, rubbing his wrists.

 _—_ His ᴛᴏ'sᴛᴜɴ. (One thing Julian had forgotten to label.)

Then his forearms. Tx'ᴛᴀ. Those were.

The marks didn’t bleed an inch. It unnerved him.

All along his back, his shoulders, the rise his scapulae, the spur of his elbow, the twist of his ulna—

Everything he was, given its name. Its proper name. Like the notation of a textbook; like the register in a butcher’s shop.

Known, piecewise, as the sum of his parts.

… Yet only in the rear, from the position of what was either a dire enemy of a trusted ally. They’d avoided one another’s eyes, one another’s—heat. No stares, no blinks, no facial haptics.

Blue eyes could melt and dribble, drizzle, leak and—never. No, never.

“I think that’s everything back here,” Julian interrupted.

“Unless you’ve found a tail I seem to be missing,” Garak mused, but it was quiet. Tentative, nearly.

Julian pressed a thumb to the spot right above the cleft of Garak’s rump. “Nothing I see. So how about I—”

And he coursed around, arriving at the front once more.

Garak knew Julian was taller, but only slightly taller. However, Julian had the advantage of his shoes, where Garak had none. Julian had the advantage of his _boots_ , where Garak had none.

Julian looked down—and this was _down_ —at him in what had to be cheer, still brandishing that damnable pen. The smile he bore was still fond, sure, kindly and… desirous.

Garak thought, for a moment, to keep one hand around his wrist, to protect his front, to protect the delicate scales there. But he had no weapon, and the insides of his legs—the insides of his legs—suggested the weapon he wanted was not one that he himself brandished.

The doctor pressed the tip against his collarbone. The dot was assured. “And this?”

He dragged it—dragged it—along in a thick, black line from the center to the acromioclavicular joint. Following the curve.

“Xᴏ.”

“Xᴏ? Just Xᴏ?”

“That’s all we’d need to say.”

And Julian, dear Julian, transcribed it exactly.

 _Xᴏ_.

Julian looked at him with such patient fondness. A man who loved to be challenged, loved to be nettled, loved to find a frontier in all matters of understanding: he was a man who loved truly, and Garak knew it, and hardly knew what to make of it, sometimes.

“But that’s just the collar. What’s in the center?” Julian prompted, as he began to mark again, his trail circumnavigating the divot at the top of Garak’s sternum. The pen-point was thinner than a fingertip, artificial and strange and still and extension of the _desire to know_ —and set words to it.

“Beg pardon.”

“This lovely…. This, Garak. Mirroring your forehead. What is it?” He repeated the line, making it thicker, bolder. Now it was exaggerated, emphasized, in uncompromising black.

“Cʜᴀ'ᴛᴜɴ.”

Julian wrote the word almost dutifully, wrapped around and not through, leaving the center untouched (and _ever-so-slightly_ blue). “‘Cʜᴀ'ᴛᴜɴ.’. And what does that mean?”

“‘Access.’”

The human, dear thing, almost laughed. “‘Access’? That means _access_?” Perhaps it was a physiologist’s quirk, but he didn’t see any ready _access._ Not there, anyhow. He pointedly ignored that he’d begun to smell a… a _something._ And that it wasn’t for the first time. No, his gaze remained above the waist. His nose could not be so discerning.

(It was no Rigellian iris, that he knew.)

Garak was unsure how to respond. _Never seen a keyhole, doctor?_ He wondered. _Don’t pretend that it’s not exactly what it would mean, if you were to set your thumb exactly where it might fit—_

He meant to go for an exaggerated yawn, a gape, for a dismissive retort, for a way to set matters one foot back.

“My dear _Doctor,_ it is hardly your place to cast aspersions on our phraseology, without even knowing how and _why_ these terms might apply. Perhaps to you, a simple creature, for whom the ‘ins’ and ‘outs’ are so rigidly coded—”

And he suddenly found the reverse end of the marker at his lips. Between them. Up against his teeth.

“Open wide,” Julian instructed. He began to pry, as if the piece he held were a screwdriver, a crowbar—something meant to open crocodilian jaws for mortal men. It was a tongue-depressor, a lever: a tool to wedge one’s way inside.

Gray lips paused, momentarily. And opened.

He could feel the pressure as Julian pushed the body of the pen against the meat of his tongue, restraining it. Insisting on unprotected angles of ingress.

“One missing molar,” Julian catalogued aloud. “But I knew that. As a young boy, isn’t that right? Cardassians handing one off to the State.”

Garak couldn’t speak, and suppressed the compliant gurgle.

Julian leaned in, peering down the patient’s throat. “Heavily ringed. Cartilaginous.”

—His face was _so_ close—

“For a sharp-tongued people, you’re perfectly conditioned to give up your mouths, aren’t you?” he teased. 

… And when Garak went to, perhaps, gurgle back, he found his tongue was still too tightly restrained.

“I’m sorry, gag reflex?”

“”o’. Naugh da’t.”

“Glad to hear it,” the doctor thrummed, slowly sliding the pen from Garak’s mouth. “Such an important thing. Unlike….”

Garak stood still.

Julian pressed ink to the place where Garak’s nipple, were he human, might be. “This.” He suddenly swiped it to the side, leaving one long streak of deep, cold jet. A smooth write-off. He moved to Garak’s adjacent pectoral and did the same.

“Now, _Doctor—”_

“No nipples,” he grinned. “I suppose the Cardassians have ‘done away’ with such ‘frivolities’. Vestigialities. Too bad. On a human, they’re very sensitive, you know.”

Garak felt his body go erect. (Not all of him, of course, exposed enough to show it. And that which was exposed, a little more engorged than erect, _per se…._ )

“And this.” Julian redirected his pen to where a human bellybutton might be. “I don’t see it, exactly…. But this is where it would be, isn’t it? A nice little terminus. The little zipper of those ventral scales leading right here. … A word for this, then, Garak? One I’ve missed?” He smiled impishly. “Or is this the oft-recounted ‘ɴᴏ'ᴛᴀᴋʜ’?”

Garak bit his lip.

“Is it, isn’t it?”

A short nod.

And the doctor labeled it, against the softest part of Garak’s body, yet. A belly that gave, just slightly, under the visitor whose footsteps fell in black ink.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian explores what he sees, a little more.

Julian recalled having seen it, even as a child, a child at a zoo: that a reptile would freeze, its thoughts unknown.

This was Garak, frozen. Not frozen in thought, no—he never was—but instead so preoccupied with thought that his fingers stilled. His heart went from beating a hundred times a minute to damn near standing still.

“Hold out your palms,” Julian instructed.

“My palms. ᴛᴏ'sɪᴛ.”

Garak bore them, both of them, up, as if he were pressed against a pane of glass. He flinched, only slightly, when Julian inscribed the word on both. There would be no confusion, not in this.

“ᴛᴏ'sɪᴛ,” Julian echoed.

The ink bled slightly into the small furrows of skin. Garak’s palms had, perhaps, his weakest defenses. No thick scales, no keratinous interference of any kind. Vulnerability and pressure: that was the palm.

“Turn them over,” the doctor furthered. “Anything else?”

“My wrists. ᴛᴏ'sᴛᴜɴ.”

Julian grabbed one and thus he assigned: ᴛᴏ'sᴛᴜɴ. He did not neglect the knowledge it represented, the skinship, regardless of all else. Garak’s nakedness might be best attested between his legs, but this was close. Even his wrists had often been off-menu. Now to hold them, to _direct_ them, was itself a meal.

“Doctor, that must, assuredly, translate directly. A wrist is a wrist is a—”

“I’m here to absolve us of any misunderstanding,” Julian clarified, his tone perhaps overly sharp. But it was time for Garak to be _directed,_ and he could not shake the feeling that he’d had quite enough. Enough dancing. Now he could see precisely what he’d vied for, and it did, in fact, have an immediate appeal.

Garak snorted. “ _Are_ you, doctor—”

“Yes.” And good grief, could the doctor move _quickly._ He’d dropped the wrist, released his long and dexterous fingers. Now, the marker was brandished as a weapon, set directly against the small protrusion of Garak’s throat, surely as a knife to those at risk of gutting.

“Doctor….”

“Of _any_ misunderstanding, Garak,” Julian thrummed. He pressed the tip firmly—just slightly more firmly—into the Adam’s apple of Garak’s neck (ᴋᴏʏɪs, though he did not know it).

Garak swallowed. He could feel the pressure on his skin, how uncomfortable it became, to move even that much. To feel anything at all. Cardassians did not sweat, as humans did, but they panted. His mouth broke open, just slightly, though he sought to hid that which was most animalistic in his response.

Julian dragged the line—the damned black line—down Garak’s throat and to the divot between his clavicles, adorning the top of his sternum. He pressed in-between, which was met with another brief gasp. “Cʜᴀ'ᴛᴜɴ,” he repeated. “We did this one.”

“Cʜᴀ'ᴛᴜɴ-ᴋᴀ,” Garak corrected, shakily. “In the center.”

Julian ignored the specification, instead opting to continue the line, bringing it down, down between the two marked-off nipples _in abstentia_ : he brought it down, down beyond the ɴᴏ'ᴛᴀᴋʜ.

It divided Garak bilaterally, as if the pen were a scalpel, and he was to be split apart, revealing the function of all things kept inside.

He stopped immediately above the now-plumped slit. He turned his eyes to Garak, playfully—a dare. “And this, Garak? What’s this?”

“… ᴀᴊᴀɴ.”

“Even when it looks like this?” Julian prompted. “Engorged?”

“ᴀᴊᴀɴ.”

“I don’t know if I should write it there.”

“The writing is for you, doctor…,” Garak remarked, albeit strained. “It’s for you to decide.”

“I’d like to know.”

“Would you?”

“Most assuredly. Now, is that the outside, or the inside?”

“Pardon?”

“Internal anatomy, Garak. I’m a doctor, you realize. Everything here, on the outside—we’ve only just started, haven’t we?” He began to slowly, agonizingly, press the tip of the marker into the space above Garak’s ᴀᴊᴀɴ. Ink pooled, edging on a bead. He then deftly flipped the piece the other way around, removing the danger of ink, but retaining a pointer made from its opposite end. His eyes had not diverted whatsoever. He could meet them, like this.

“At this point, we tend to be, literarily, less specific….” It was a weak retort.

Julian set the tip against the ingress. “Well, I would like to know. What is this, Garak? A Cardassian cloaca, I take it? This, that, and everything else, through here?”

“It is used for expulsion, Doctor.”

“And uptake as well? T’sk, t’sk.” Julian clicked his tongue. “Is everything Cardassian about efficiency? I mean, do correct me if I’m wrong, but you accept through this passage also, don’t you?”

He tilted up his neck, his scaled chin. “We can.”

“Do you?” The plastic shaft became slightly more insistent. “Because I’d like to get a measurement, Garak.”

Garak scrunched his nose.

“The depth, Garak. It’s important.” And there, that terrible, confident, boyish grin. “Well, _I_ imagine it’s important.”

“… As you wish.”

He did not need to register his permission twice. Julian pushed the shaft inside without a moment’s hesitation, and without the slightest resistance. “Hmm,” he pondered aloud. “It’s slick, isn’t it? Got to keep a firm grip on this or I feel I’d lose it up in there. Oh. Yes, goes far, doesn’t it? … Got some….” He maneuvered the thing, trying for insights. “Oh, got some texture in here, don’t we?”

Garak gritted his teeth together. Between that and the heat, he’d forsake his panting. His claws tapped against the floor as his feet flexed.

Julian slid it back out again, and brought it to his lips. He pulled it through, stripping off the natural lubrication that Garak’s ᴀᴊᴀɴ had provided. “You know, that’s quite interesting in there. Maybe we need a closer look?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingers.

Julian licked his fingers (between, along…). Strange, after a fashion, given how recently he’d given them a proper washing. A medical man should be careful. To coat them with the mix, with the flavor, the concoction—his body and Garak’s together—was heady. Clean, but savory. Fragrant, slightly musty. Organic.

“Hold this, please.” He positioned the pen sideways in Garak’s gently-parted mouth, to be held between the teeth like a bridle’s bit.

Garak thought to object— _I do have two hands free, Doctor_ —but ultimately accepted the request, if for no other reason than it how it bore the taste of Julian’s lips. Human saliva, with its salt. The closest they’d come to a kiss.

“I can get a better sense of what, precisely, is contained in the ᴀᴊᴀɴ with a little digital exploration,” Julian clarified calmly. He pressed two fingertips directly against the engorged flesh—still slightly splayed, slightly parted, from its earlier penetration. He could feel the thick lubrication signaling an impending ease of entry. He could smell it—just slightly, but stronger, now. “Quite a bit warmer than I was expecting, too. I thought Cardassians ran a little cooler.”

Garak’s breath hissed from around the pen, but it ended in an upnote, like a mewl.

Julian took to his knees, keeping the light touch of his fingers in place. He maintained eye contact as he slid his way down—until Garak broke it, looking away. Julian grinned, irrepressibly. Cardassian courtship was something else entirely, but given how things were unfolding, perhaps not as hard to master as he’d initially feared.

The doctor inhaled deeply. “All right,” he said, playfully professional in tone. “Let’s see… right here, is it?” He turned his hand so that his own, unlabeled palm was held upward, and he slid the two fingers inside.

A whimper from somewhere up above indicated he was on the right track. He crooked his fingers, exploring the pebbly texture and muscular rings. He’d medicated himself to keep from—well, from embarrassing himself, perhaps prematurely—but pharmacology could only do so much. He could feel that which was in his own private nook begin to scent, begin to stiffen.

He began to grow a little lost, a little dazed, preoccupied with the most splendid fruits of his imagination—

Julian startled, feeling two sturdy hands suddenly grip his shoulders.

—Garak was bracing himself. He was leaning, now, over the doctor—his arms now buttressing his knees as they grew weak. The muscles of one gray thigh were twitching involuntarily. There was no such trembling in the bruising clasp of his fingers around the doctor’s trapezius. That was _iron_.

Julian couldn’t help but tense, the reaction only driving Garak’s nails in more tightly. He could feel them through the fabric of his turtleneck. He slowed his fingers, just ever-so-slightly, and made another plumb for depth. Even with his long fingers, there seemed to be ample room. And for all he enjoyed the promise inherent in the texture of the walls, and in the remarkable _control_ of where, precisely, he was being directed, he made his first approbative gasp—“Oh!”—when he finally identified a particular nub.

A high-pitched whine assured him that he’d managed to locate one of Garak’s better-hidden secrets.

“And this, Garak?” he inquired. “I doubt they’d have this defined in the books you’ve lent me. Unless they’re somewhat more salacious than I’d been led to believe. You wouldn’t give a young Starfleet officer anything like _that_ , would you, Garak? _Lewd_ works, from your culture? Obscene materials? That seems a bit direct, doesn’t it, for you? Downright solicitation. … Garak, what’s this? Tell me the name.”

“ _C’tnph_.”

“Can’t speak?”

“… Nnph….”

Julian chuckled. “That’s all right, Garak. I know what this is.” He flashed his eyes upward. “May I coax it out?” He tickled the end of it, just slightly, although at such depths, it was quite difficult to maneuver. He could flick it, at the tip. Try to activate it. (Admittedly, he didn’t quite know how.)

Garak’s grip on his shoulders tightened. One of his heels was coming unglued from its place on the floor, as if he could almost keel forward, angling for the perfect fit—

Julian suddenly withdrew his fingers. They shone— _gleamed_ —in the dimmed light. Shining and hot and wet. The muscles of Garak’s ᴀᴊᴀɴ had stripped them of most of his natural lubricant, as they pulled away, albeit incompletely.

(One could suppose it was needed for later.)

Julian heard a very distraught puff of breath from two flared nostrils.

The doctor stood and with one confident motion, wiped his hands on Garak’s jaw, and plucked the marker from between Cardassian teeth. The body of it now sported a curved row of divots from the clamp of Garak’s robust dentition. He observed their record with a little surprise and even more amusement. “You’re right, Garak. Awfully silly of me, wasn’t it? Terribly awkward angle. I need you horizontal.” He looked off and to the side, providing direction, though Garak hardly needed it—the layout being quite familiar. “Best to be on the bed.”

Garak scoffed, half-spat, “The _bed—_ ”

“Pardon me. We can do this on the floor, if you prefer,” Julian assured him genially.

A pink tongue ran between white teeth behind gray lips.

And Julian could never get enough of those blue eyes.

He set the tip of the marker against the concavity of Garak’s collar—the Cʜᴀ'ᴛᴜɴ-ᴋᴀ. “I can lead you there. Doesn’t that seem more comfortable? Wouldn’t you like to do that, Garak?”

Garak took the instruction and began to walk backwards, first hesitantly, then with increasing surety.

—Until the edge of the bed bumped against the back of his knees.

He reflexively grabbed for Julian’s collar, the burgundy fabric now bunching in his hand.

Julian brushed his fingers though Garak’s hair, gently tousling several strands free of their rigidly-styled alignment. “I think you’ll be very pleased, if you should lie down. I think you’ll like it, Elim.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingers

Garak shot him a daring look and wasn’t even sure which of them it was for. His grip remained tight, still pulling at the fabric of Julian’s turtleneck. In the next instant—a reptilian flash—he let go.

Julian passed his fingers though Garak’s hair again, reassuringly. “I’m interested in learning more. Won’t you lie down?”

Garak snorted, rolled his eyes—but all that the pensive pawing of a willing horse. He sat directly on the edge of the bed (a soft, human bed), looking up.

And in return, the doctor pressed the marker—that dreadful ankus—into the indentation on Garak’s forehead—pushing him backwards. “Lie down. All the way down. Supine.”

It was done, as instructed, with only feigned reluctance. At last the back of his head touched the sheets, soft fabric of a beautiful blue, the nigh-unprotected, unguarded, unshielded curve of his throat facing upward. “Human medicine is so… rudimentary,” he mused aloud.

Julian smirked. “It is, a little. Just a little thing about humans: we learn best not by seeing, but by doing.” With that, he removed his shoes, setting them next to one another, just-so, on the floor. His socks followed, balled and bunched and set inside the hollow. The process was quick, but felt excruciatingly slow.

—for both.

Even so, Julian drank in the sight. “Computer, dim lights an additional thirty percent.”

“All that said, surely you must need to see a _little?_ ” It ended on the slightest hint of a nervous tremor.

“I can see perfectly well, Elim.” There was a soft smile in his voice; even Garak could hear it. “At least, I will once you separate your legs. Plenty of room. Go on, then.”

“My dear, I haven’t the slightest idea what angle you want. Do it for me.”

Julian slid onto the bed, himself quite pleased with the deep blue sheets. They set off a glorious gray. He took one of Garak’s ankles in each hand and did precisely as requested, splaying them apart. And despite that—the concern, the trust required—Garak still kept his gaze turned away. _Darling thing,_ Julian thought. _Seeing him when he’s shy…._

The Cardassian exhaled shakily.

At that, Julian set the palm of his hand just below Garak’s belly. The heat was remarkable. “I could feel it in here, inside, which means…,” Julian remarked, letting his fingers drag downward to the split between Garak’s thighs. “Which means I probably need to start back here again. See if I can tease the thing out. Do you think that will work, Elim?”

“… I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, you?” Julian chuckled warmly. “You, you’re never afraid. So let me just see here….” He quickly prodded with a fingertip, probing as if the entrance weren’t already familiar. Two fingers slipped in readily. “Oh!” he chimed. “And there it is. Ah, much closer, isn’t it? Must be the angle. Seems practically ready to pop out on its own. Ah, here, let me try—"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short bit. Busy weekend.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian only has so many hands.

Lithe fingers elicited a half-groan, ending in a whimper. Watching Garak pull his lips between his clean-edged teeth would have been reward enough. Little hints and peeks at the flesh that began where gray-scaled skin ended—the vulnerability of secret color. In the handling, grays had split to reveal lovely hues: the blue stripes of his back, the soft violet edging the walls of his—

He crooked his fingers carefully, pressing wherever the surprisingly strong rings of inner tissue seemed to pull him. Julian hadn’t the faintest idea whether this was a Cardassian trick or Garak’s own practiced level of control, but was undeniably impressed in either case. The texture was remarkable; the silky lubrication eased it all.

Julian teased again at the very tip, nestled away in its own internal pocket. He had a good sense, now, of its general shape—elegantly tapered—but not much in the way of visual detail. Matters like these really had to be remedied.

“Elim,” Julian crooned, “this could come out?”

Garak arched his back in the midst of a cautious reorientation of his body. “It could.”

“If you want it to?”

“Yes.” He grimaced.

“If you want it to…. Well, if you want to instruct me, it’s something I suspect I’ll need to see. No two ways about it.”

“What happened to humans ‘doing’ not ‘seeing’?” Garak managed, thinly. Waveringly. But there he pressed his body up against those lovely fingers, denied only at the knuckle. He spoke so many languages, lying in all but one.

Julian ran his fingertips along both sides again. There was some sort of rippling edge on either side which he was quite eager to observe with his senses unrestricted. “Oh goodness, don’t worry at all about that.” He withdrew, in defiance of Garak’s eager positioning. “Now….” He then lay his hand up, as if to receive, and slammed the leading edge against Garak’s ᴀᴊᴀɴ. “Evert.”

It slipped out into his palm, easily.

(Though by the sound Garak made, one would think it had required much exertion. _Clearly, they do not sweat,_ Julian thought with deep satisfaction. _Or he’d be dripping…._ )

It took all of Julian’s reserve to keep to his earlier vow: no animal remarks, none! But good grief, if what he saw was anything less than the body of an eel? A thick, tapered body—boneless, and _very_ flexible—with the fins of a conger, positioned sideways.

“Ah, see? And that’s why you simply have to take a proper gander,” Julian announced with awe, overlaying just the slightest hint of glee. “Mottled stripes of that absolutely remarkable Cardassian blue. Why, I should have known.” He redirected his gaze, only briefly, to another blue, that of Garak’s eyes, to gauge what _he_ perhaps thought of Julian’s discovery.

With an unexpected flash, Garak grabbed one of the pillows and mashed it over his own face. One might think he made to suffocate himself singlehandedly.

“G-Garak!” It burst out of him as a half-laugh.

“ _Doctor,_ ” Julian heard, an irritated mumble dampened as it passed through layers of replicated down.

“ _Elim,_ ” Julian reassured. He began to run Garak’s cock between his fingers, pulling it and teasing it as if it were a snake. He could feel the blood pounding through its thin, almost defenseless skin. The scent, now, was undeniable. The man reeked of his leakage, of how readily his body would take and would surrender—and take and surrender in one.

Garak’s knuckles were still tight, his hands in an iron grip over each side of the pillow. The Cardassian looked like he could scream; he looked like he wanted to.

(He looked like he could scream all night.)

An odd sound—a repetitive click, like a gear with a bent tooth—issued from somewhere in Garak’s throat.

“It twists when I do this, Elim,” Julian said, softly running his thumb over what he presumed was the primary vein, which ran along its ventral side. He licked his lips. (When had they gotten so dry?) “Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

“You’re reacting?” Julian indicated. Oh, it was _very_ slick—

“Y-….” There was an exasperated sigh. “ _Yes._ ”

“Hmm. Good to know.” He grinned openly now, and why not? Garak’s face was still hidden away. Perhaps some Cardassian custom. Julian felt confident he was meeting all the necessary Cardassian parameters, whatever they might be, but didn’t hold himself to the standard of anticipating… _all_ their eccentricities. Perhaps normally it wasn’t something done face-to-face. Perhaps not the first time. (Perhaps not any time? Perhaps never with _any_ light.)

“And now there’s a hollow—well, not _quite_ a hollow—inside, where this was,” Julian continued, musing aloud. “With this out of the way, there must be more I can reach.” He looked down. “Only, the trouble is, if I keep hold of _this_ , I’ve only got the one hand. And I need that for notes, don’t I? Where did I put that pen….”

Garak growled.

And Julian took note of that, certainly, but didn’t interpret it as a deterrent, or discouragement, as such. Still, it was always better to be careful. “You must let me know if I’ve gotten it wrong,” he said gently.

Garak worked his slippery way between Julian’s nimble fingers.

“I do think I have a solution. See, _mine_ —I’m not sure about yours, but I’m thinking I’m on to something here, in suspecting as much—is a sensitive sensory apparatus, particularly at the head. More so than the human finger. A bit longer, also. Better able to gauge the volume. So why don’t I use that, and then I’ve got enough hands?” he suggested.

“What a marvelously elegant and unprovoked idea,” he heard from somewhere beneath the cushion.

“Well, as I said, it’s only an idea. If you think you know better, by all means—"

He could feel Garak’s thighs twitch. “You _are_ the doctor, Julian.”

Julian nodded with a haughtily professional air. “You’re quite right.” _And I’m bloody hard as a rock._

(He’d heard a thing or two about Cardassian _olfaction_ , and wondered, too, if that might be the cause of the pillow, if human musk, if the sheer _intensity_ —)

He loosened his fly and deftly removed himself, still broadly clothed but not where one could suggest it most mattered. “Now,” he broached, “are you still going to be able to offer me some vocabulary?”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian has sex.

Julian had expected, the very first time he fucked Garak—(properly, that is to say, _really_ went for it, and it was only a matter of time)—he would feel any number of ways. Passionate, certainly, and he did. Clever, successful—a little possessive, perhaps? Certainly, and he did.

What he hadn’t expected to feel was mildly _giddy._

He’d positioned himself, the very head of his prick sidled up along the slit beneath Garak’s exposed whatever-it-was, and he knew, in his heart of hearts, that despite the dominant position, he simultaneously bore what had to be one of his absolutely goofiest expressions. Frankly, Garak’s odd choice for positioning of the pillow (straight over his face) had been an unexpected mercy for them both.

But good _grief,_ if it didn’t just seem—what was the word that came to mind? _Brilliant._

Finally, that clever spy! Finally, He-Of-The-Runaround!

… And there _he_ was, splayed out and panting and doing his level best not to wriggle too wantonly as Julian slowly, but determinedly, stroked the strange expression of his eagerness, slick and fragrant.

He grabbed the pen—the night’s magic wand—and popped it into his mouth—much as Garak had his own soft silencer, to prevent himself from saying anything too foolish. Anything that might ruin the mood. Garak was happy to snap, after a fashion, and Julian to indulge in his own linguistic errors, more commonly of the awkward variety. Why bother with either, just yet?

—Especially when there was good cause to _focus._

He eased his way in. And he was careful. Though he endeavored to still work Garak—that part of him gently, gently—he kept his other hand nearby, in case his fingers should be needed in assisting his way either in or out. He prodded a bit, at the Garak’s verges (a resolutely fetching blue), hoping to experience a smooth entry.

It was, he admitted to himself, smooth. A little too tight, a little too firmly ridged, to be effortless. But there was no fault in the direction he received once he was inside. He felt guided, eased—tugged with the plausible deniability of involuntary flesh.

Sweat began to prickle on his brow. He could feel it dot the skin of his back under his turtleneck. He thought to remove it, but instead merely regretted he hadn’t—he was past the point of brooking new tactics. He was where he wanted to be.

Garak released a thrumming, shaking gasp from underneath. Perhaps Cardassian ears couldn’t have heard it; human ears mostly certainly could.

(And _Julian’s_ ears, an _augment’s_ ears—)

“My _dea_ —"

And the groan Julian received when he reached the hilt was heavenly. Low and primal and dolefully as-yet unappeased. Broken-hearted to be at capacity, and so _needful_ of friction.

“Leh-let’s see,” Julian mused, dropping the pen into his hand. The saliva felt hot on his fingertips. “How far are we, exactly?” He made a dash across Garak’s skin, indicating how far his instrument had penetrated. “N-no,” he continued quietly, moving up Garak’s softly-plated belly, marking again. “This deep, at least. At least.”

(There was that grinding sound again, almost a whirr—an alien noise Julian found himself happily unable to place. It was such a peculiar sound, in his mind it was Garak’s sound, now, and no one else’s.)

He slid out slightly—and treasured the slick, wet reward to his senses—before driving himself in again. First very, very slowly.

“The sound comes from here—” he said, as he doodled a music note.

♪

“S-somewhere around there,” he continued, trying not to laugh, either out of relief or something like shy hopefulness, the unspoken but anxious expectation that he’d done things _right,_ for once—

(A little “♡”, over the muffled sound of _doc- **tor** —_and maybe something else?)

Why was it so enthralling to continue writing on him? Scrawling, inking? Garak could no longer see it, and seemed too distracted to convert the sensation, the looping pressure, into anything discrete—

Leaving Julian free to inscribe as he pleased, where Garak was tasked to acclimate to a rhythm’s uptick—

sʟɪᴄᴋ

⠀⇩

(It was a little fun, it was a little dangerous fun.)

ᴇᴀsʏ

(Almost too easy, honestly.)

ᴄᴜᴛᴇ ♡

—And _all_ too much more.

All right, then fairly quick. And Garak’s cock was properly writhing, just _thrashing_ in his grasp. He’d never expected to fear for his fingers’ circulation. Julian could actually feel pressure channeling in the vessels beneath the skin, a tremendous feat of valves demanding. Luckily, what grasped his prick was somewhat more lenient.

“O-oh, there’s something very nice in there,” he said, still trying for aloofness, but terribly distracted. (Oh, what _was_ the use…?!) “What do you think, Eli—”

The pillow hit his face with a solid whump.

It wiped the expression off his face, that much was for certain. … But it was of no matter. It would have been replaced with amazement in any event. He almost laughed, again, not out of humor, but something like… joy?

It jolted him, threw off the steady plunge. “E-Elim! Your mouth, your…. It’s gotten…?”

The word he was looking for, of course, was _blue._ A gasping, yawning, desperate mouth was blue. Not all blue, of course, or quite at the saturation of their beloved lapis. But blue in the tongue, blue across the lips—not an asphyxiated blue, but a _true_ blue. A _telling_ blue.

So much for one little pink tongue!

Garak gaped as he gasped, giving a view down his throat so clear that Julian could observe one missing molar.

There was no withholding at that point, no remaining reserve. The game had been good fun, but something about that color could demand even human attention. Julian arced over Garak’s body, suddenly desperate to lick and nibble and rasp. With every thrust (each fast, and very much _harder_ ), he heard the wind rush from a mouth that before that day he’d only known to tease and complain. It didn’t seem to have much in the way of complaints, any longer. Not if the clamp of those sturdy legs around his hips was anything to go by.

He could feel Garak’s cock pulse and soon spend, spasming with release. (And now the smell was quite a bit different, almost like oleander.) His semen was thin and wet and clear, difficult to distinguish from human perspiration.

“I’m going to—I’m not far off—”

There was a hard chuff mixed with a soft whine.

He grasped Garak’s shoulders, wresting them roughly. “Ah, Elim, look at me, I’m here—"


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian reflects on how he's done so far, and makes an important request.

The immediate sensation, having rolled off, was one of overwhelming self-affirmation. Whatever their conversation had suggested, earlier that day, had been realized to its utmost, and Julian couldn’t help but feel some measure of accomplishment. Garak was wily, challenging, and operated by what was often a deeply alien logic. To succeed meant more than a satisfying romp. It was a victory a younger version of himself could never have devised. He’d _learned_ from Garak, and became the man for which this— _this—_ was possible.

And it had felt very— _very_ good.

There was a grin plastered across his face, whether it had earned him an earlier pillow-across-the-mouth or not. He hadn’t even known Cardassian mouths went blue, and he’d now seen it—compelled it—himself.

He leaned over, kissed Garak on the temple, and hopped—nearly bounded—to his feet (feeling, as it happens, ten feet taller). “I’ll go first on the refresher. Now—stay put. Don’t go anywhere,” he ordered with mock seriousness.

Garak stared back at him. Quietly.

(He, himself, clearly _assessing._ )

“But first—” Julian swaggered back into the living area, grabbed Garak’s clothes from where they still lay over the arm of his sofa, and bundled them under an arm. As he circled back, this time to the far side with the refresher, he smirked mischievously. “There. Now, if you truly make to rush off, it’ll need to be in something replicated. And I don’t think any of those designs would cover all your new inscriptions.”

(One more little trick. Just to make sure.)

Julian relented. Just a bit. “And there’s a towel, right to the side, in the basket.” With that, he made his way towards the sonic shower, the door issuing a soft woosh as it closed behind him.

//

Julian admired his face. He thought he looked very dashing. Certainly, there were some who cut more muscular, more _robust_ figures, but at the moment, he thought himself unusually handsome (as conquerors could be).

He carefully folded Garak’s clothes and put them on the shelf above the toilet, pausing only to enjoy the sensation of velvet under his fingertips. It was a lovely tunic, one which Julian had never seen on him before. Or long.

He leaned in for a long, redolent sniff, then entered the sonic shower. On a whim, he switched the lever to its hot-water option. The station used water to transfer heat throughout the facility, and waste heat was in considerable surfeit. There was no real cost for having installed the option once the Cardassians surrendered Terok Nor. Julian found it a little more tactile, a little more tangible. It made it easier to feel the salt being swept from his dark skin. He also found it left him smelling a bit more… _Julian._

The sonic shower, meanwhile, really left no prisoners.

His first pass was, of course, to cleanse himself. There was work to be done, after all. But once that was done, and his hair was adhered to his head with dampness, and his shoulders down to his toes had all experienced the little sting of warmth from the showerhead, he took a moment to admire his cock. To fondle it, to thank it. To be glad of it and to reminisce about exactly where it had been able to lead him.

It almost felt like a shame, washing it too thoroughly, as if he were stripping it of the proof of the deed. However, it was his sincere hope—and even sincerer ambition—that this had only been the first of many such events, and that some of those encounters would be cheekily undeniable in the aftermath. He briefly considered whether he could someday convince Garak to offer some perhaps overly public affection.

(“Look, the Cardassian! And isn’t he magnificent, and can’t you see that he’s mine?”)

He could feel himself half-ready for the second go-around. He considered whether to clean the pipes more thoroughly with a brief self-pleasuring follow-up, but opted against it. There was still much to be learned about Cardassians, such as exactly how many times they might do it a night, and he did not want to be caught unprepared.

However, the thought! The thought! Even the _memory_ , the memory of something that had concluded just a few minutes before, was enough to drive him wild. Garak, messy and hot and soft and mussed and a-r-c-h-i-n-g his back up, tilting, perfecting the angle.

There were those who would remind him that Garak was a dangerous man, and it was flabbergasting to him that they thought that the recollection would make him, at any moment, any less hard.

Instead, he found himself asking: _oh, what else do they do?_

The pulls and tugs from inside Garak’s body had been a delightful surprise, and Julian suspected it would not be the last. He ignored the tingle up his spine. Enough, enough! He stepped out of the shower, dried himself, and wrapped his towel around his waist, tucking it tightly. The thick fabric of the towel would help hide if his appetites, in the moment, seemed excessive.

It was to his great relief (and admittedly, some surprise), that when he opened the door, Garak was still there, sitting on the edge of the bed, pensively.

From there, he could see every word.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak takes his shower next. He has rather different feelings.

Jadzia had been right. About the towels.

And Garak had made good use of the one that was, as promised, in the basket, to the right of the bed. He’d wiped himself down, thoroughly as he could, including where the sweat from Julian’s brow had dripped onto his scales. When he was finished, he had folded it, primly, and set it aside. For all its graceful handling, the words for the scent it bore were—in Kardasi—too vulgar for respectable tongues.

He’d tucked “himself” back in again, though it didn’t look half as neat as when he had arrived.

He had also tried to wipe away the ink, without much luck.

Garak swaddled himself in the flat sheet. It would, he presumed, be possible to make a mad dash back to his section of the habitat ring, but not without stirring quite a few unwelcome questions. Several he did not want to answer were: 1) What happened to your clothes? 2) How exactly did you get so fastidiously labeled? 3) By whom? and 4) You’re dripping cum. Which, strictly speaking, wasn’t a question, but certainly implied several.

Under such conditions, it was only proper to wait for Julian to re-emerge. The doctor, being quite experienced in such matters, and having very flat skin, required relatively little time.

“Have a go,” Julian offered, gesturing to the refresher, the air still steaming, hot like human breath. “It’s your turn.” He paused, tapping his chin. “Do Cardassians wear pajamas? Your clothes are in there, but it has gotten a little late, hasn’t it? There’s a robe inside, terry cloth. Usually mine, but you might like it.”

“Very kind of you.” He rose, still wrapped in his shroud of cotton. It made something of a cape as he strode past, casting a more regal figure than he otherwise felt he deserved.

Julian began to strip the remaining sheets from the bed. He’d replicated a second set earlier in the day, having stood at the conflux of prudence and optimism. He hummed to himself. “I’ll replicate you something in silk,” he mused, but Garak had already shut the door.

//

Humans always put mirrors above the sink—centrally, prominently located for all matters of hygiene.

(Cardassians, meanwhile, primarily attended to such matters by touch and simply—as Garak believed—knowing where the various components of their faces were located, without additional visual direction.)

Despite that, he had always found the practice inoffensive.

He had a different impression that particular evening.

The face that looked back at him was crowned in a disheveled mass of black hair; strands, stray, jutted in an assortment of directions. His cheeks were flecked with sweat—not his. Marred with faint traces of where Julian’s teeth had scraped along scales far more delicate than the man had realized.

He touched his lips, still blue, still faintly blue.

He couldn’t bear to look at his teeth. Shameful, shameful. A Cardassian’s teeth were the most fundamental property of the State, next to the heart, which, well—

And as he allowed the sheet to slake off his shoulders, he could see the _writing—_ the writing, the ink, black marks, dividing so much gray skin.

But the most alarming was what he couldn’t see. But could feel.

Julian had wielded that terrible pen with alarming confidence. But white ink superseded black, always.

Garak could feel a part of his body—vestigially, given his sex—cache Julian’s semen, store it away in a deep treasury inherent to members of the species. Cardassians were a hardy race, with lives hard-lived, and mates were often parted. For the body to retain, to stash, to hoard, whether he wanted it to or not—

Two years, perhaps three, unless he had it evacuated.

(No trouble at all, merely requires a doctor—requires admitting, to a doctor—)

(But why would you? If you had allowed it? Rescinding the score, reneging on the outcome, is that fair game?)

Garak braced his hands against the lip of the counter. The rest of the fabric fell from him; he was again, naked. Naked entirely.

Fair game. Fair game! It was the _wrong_ game. Certainly, it was the wrong game. His dear doctor—and Julian was a very kind man, was he not?—would never play so aggressively. Garak, himself, was known as something of a militant kotra player, but nothing to do with kotra would ever be on this scale.

The game—the game was—the game was to be _admired_ —the suitor, star-struck—

What had even been acknowledged, straight-on? Julian had fucked him without even admitting to it. Claimed him like an afterthought.

The proof, of course, deeply embedded.

The act of a forceful truth-teller.

But what was the matter with being bonded to the doctor? Two years, three years: he’d been Julian’s that long anyhow, if he were being honest. (Admittedly, not his specialty.)

Garak made for the sonic shower, lest he watch his mouth teeter back towards blue. It was bad enough, having it be revealed that such a beautifully deceitful mouth could tell at least one very vivid truth. If it went and told _another_ , confessed to the joyousness of reckless, unconsidered pleasure…. One step—one step at a time. On the first level, there is that which is clear—there is sweat, there is saliva, there’s a natural lubricant. On the second level, there is that which is black—there is ink. On the third level, there is that which is damning, damning, damning—

He stepped inside, momentarily shocked as water sprayed from the showerhead. He simply hadn’t checked, hadn’t noticed— _absurd_ given that Julian emerged in a cloud of steam; there was still steam clogging the air.

Garak grabbed for a loofah, thoughtfully provided and well-laden with soap, and began to scrape at himself, at all angles.

“Come off, come off,” he murmured, “this really _has_ to come off….”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fixing up.

He emerged clean, anyway.

Ever the keenly-kept, he took the time he needed to smooth and flatten his hair, however rudimentarily. He didn’t have the necessary product, having admittedly not thought it necessary to replicate in advance. However, mere moisture would do in a pinch. Besides, he’d been in tougher binds, at least with respect to hairstyling. He’d singed it, once or twice, on reactor-blast, once even on red-hot stones while navigating inner Vulcan.

Garak had also helped himself to Bashir’s toothbrush, and left it with several deep toothmarks for the trouble. He had ground his teeth into the shaft, chewing on his agitation.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble in paradise.

By the time Garak emerged, Julian was waiting expectantly on the edge of the bed, ready to spring up at any sudden movement, to seize, to block, to—well, perhaps partake in some more innocent gesture. It was difficult to know. His long legs extended down to the surprisingly warm floor, the pads of his feet (if humans had them, anyway), pressed silently against the thin carpet.

Garak noticed, if only briefly, that the temperature was slightly higher than before, where it had already been politely elevated. Perhaps Julian had heard his slight yelp—silent to a Cardassian, and even to a human, he’d have thought—or had heard the rush of water as opposed to the activation of the sonic scrubber. Under such conditions, a few extra degrees were certainly welcome.

Despite the care paid to his teeth, his hair, his nails, his scales, his cloaca—to whatever extent that had been possible—he had not resumed his dress. He remained draped, somewhat regally, somewhat pathetically, in the blue sheets of Julian’s selection, as before. He’d ignored the robe entirely, regardless of how politely Julian had offered it, as well as his earlier outfit. What would be the point of either? After all, neither would cover the extent, the expanse, so _he might as well bare—_

“Oops,” Julian admitted, giving himself a bashful scratch behind the ear. “Must have dialed in the wrong formula.” (He had been a little nervous.) “I’ll check the replicator logs, each version has got a specific, well—sorry, Garak. Should’ve double-checked. Would you want to take another shower now, and I’ll pull up the proper solvent, or, erm,” he attempted, hopeful and a little flushed around the cheeks, “you could stay a while longer, and maybe we could take care of it afterwards. Got to say, they’ve still got quite an appeal, an extraordinary appeal, er, practical-learning-wise. The markings, I mean. What I, ha, what I wrote there.” He shot a smile—a very human smile. “What do you say?”

Garak knew perfectly well that he wore no expression at all. He glanced up and down Julian nakedly (and why not, given that the man himself was naked, too?), there perceiving the pangs of eagerness. He could see, easily, the twitches of electricity under that soft, mammalian skin. The way his hair could stand on end, all along his arms.

(And, of course, he’d accessed the necessary information to know that humans could considerably extend their nightly satisfaction, if they so chose. Not exactly a one-and-done species. And a young man like Dr. Bashir? Unquestionable.)

He crossed the room silently, letting the fabric trail behind him, ghosting over the floor. Once he had completed the approach toward his newly-minted mate, he stared down, his blue eyes flat and oddly empty. He assessed, he merely _assessed._ And good grief, if he couldn’t help but pass that gaze down, down along Julian’s nose, up over his lips, over his chin, down his lithe neck, along his sternum, his belly, all the way to those coarse black hairs that led him right back to where this whole mess got serious.

He dropped to his knees, and Julian jolted. Julian jolted in at least two ways.

“Aah, Elim….” Oh, the way he _mused_ that sound.

Garak pressed his fingertips against an inner thigh. It manipulated the flesh, just slightly. Making it just a tad easier to see what was near at hand. He’d felt it, of course, not long prior. This, however, required more reasoning—the matter of Julian’s physiology, and his. A matter, as always, of hair and teeth. The question of whether it would be too much to line up the coronal ridge with his palatal valve. He leaned in and allowed himself a deep inhale, measuring the musk.

(As for the external testes, he could hardly imagine. He hoped the line of the scales along his chin would be of no discomfort.)

He ran a finger around his lips, weighing whether they’d need additional lubrication—which he assumed he’d likely be providing himself, of himself. He moved a hand in, brushing the shaft—

“H-hey, woah! Woah, hey, wait, wait just a moment, won’t you?” Julian interrupted, hopping back several inches on his rump.

Garak looked up in mild irritation, but said nothing.

Julian cocked his head, his still-drying hair holding to his brow in elegant little curls. “Sorry, it’s just, I thought this was something Cardassians don’t do? Aren’t… known for doing, anyway.” He startled. “I just mean, once, when one was coming through, I remember, in Quark’s bar—er, the patron, the man, came out of a holosuite, and he was barking, just, absolutely through the roof. Gave Quark an earful, and not in the good way. Quark apologized, said he’d just run a quick species-substitute in the program, hadn’t meant to offend—but seemed to realize his mistake. Refund, free drink, the whole bit, which, you know, for Quark…. And”—a light, awkward squeak—“I may have asked Quark something about it, ah, gotten a little confirmation there. So, er, I just want you to know….”

And Garak’s fingers curled just a little further around Julian’s cock. There was a vicious little blip, the thought of squeezing it to jelly. Popping its damned head off.

He winced through a bitten lip. “A-ah”—it was almost a pant—“I, I’m, just to say, if this, to you, isn’t—”

“You’re quite right. But ours is not _Cardassian_ courtship, doctor. And what better way to illustrate?” The words were smooth, easy. And he brought his face near, almost making contact.

—Before Julian, inconveniently enough, took the side of his head in his fingers, gently holding him back by the damp locks of his silky, black hair. “Wh-what? Oh, good grief—! I thought I was doing a good job. Damn! No, Elim, I’m sorry: I was trying to do this the Cardassian way.”

Garak almost seethed. His breath, for once, was as hot as Julian’s, the warm-blood thing.

“I went and bungled it up, didn’t I?”

“No, doctor,” Garak answered, through gritted teeth. “You performed _expertly_.”

Julian leaned over, trying to bring them to a more equal height, which could only mean down, down. “Well, then what’s the trouble? How’s it not Cardassian now? Have they only got a one-round routine?”

“ _Please_ , doctor. _Please_ do not pretend you managed it all unknowingly.”

He shot Garak a lopsidedly cocky grin. “I thought you’d be impressed, then, what with it half guesswork? You love games like that.” (In fact, the entire think had smacked of Mau, and he was of the impression he’d deftly shed his cards.) "And it did feel you were cluing me in, just a bit. You did let me see your mouth."

Garak rose like a viper, shuddering with indignation. And, with just as little forewarning, wrapped the sheet tightly around himself, turned on his heels, and stalked out of the bedroom to the main quarters.

“Wh—!”

There, once he found himself at the very furthest point from Julian’s bedroom (right under the expansive window, looking out towards the docking ring), he crumpled to the ground, curled into a ball, and wedged his face directly into the corner. Firmly cocooned in blue, looking very much the swaddled caterpillar, but with considerably greater than average scorn emanating from all angles.

Julian, of course, followed directly on his heels in profound bafflement. “Elim… Elim?” He stood over him, or at least what there was to see of him: the fuming clump on his floor. “Elim, what in the world?” He was stuck between a strain of worry, another like amusement, and pure, unadulterated confusion. (His cock was feeling the same, regardless of its otherwise not-entirely-parallel logic. It remained half-hard as if awaiting further instruction.)

The doctor crouched down and lay a hand on what he inferred to be a shoulder. He was about to speak, but could feel the half-laugh (an awkward laugh) sitting in his throat. He swallowed, hoping to suppress it. “Elim? Come on, now. You can tell me. What’ve I done this time?” He tugged a little at the verge of the sheets, plucking insistently. “All right. Open up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is another one-shot uploaded since our last update, "By (no) Means" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/28666626)


End file.
